Gusty day
It was a gusty day. Fresh with excitement. Invigorating right to the bone, chilling the heat, and jump-starting the mind. Marissa awoke this morning with a rejunevated spirit, and as always, she couldn't explain why. It was just a windy, gusty, intense sort of day.
Her day off from work, too. That was always a plus. And combined with the inspiring wind, the day's atmosphere was breathed cooly and easily. It was a Wednesday, no, maybe, a Thursday? -- it didn't matter. Marissa grasped the ball, handed to her by a mysterious force deep within the gloom of Washington Heights, and ran with it.
She slipped on her pink Chucks, remnants of her high school days. Before the baby, before getting kicked out, before Washington Heights. And off she skipped, spritely toward the Metro and then off to the University. She had her one morning class of the week, and she was excited.
Wait a second, what day is it again? Oh, Thursday -- good, she did have class and breathed a sigh of relief. And plus, tomorrow is Friday. She always appreciated Thursdays, though. The anticipation for the weekend always caught her senses -- she almost enjoyed the eager waiting more than the actual weekend. She lived by hope.
But not everyone did, and Marissa received a stark reminder as she saw Fil scramble around to repair his roof. He offered her a paper, and though she almost replied in the affirmative, she couldn't bring herself to it. New York Times, only. Not the Baltimore Sun. She had enough of Baltimore. In her mind, she dreamed of Broadway, Wall Street . . . Baker Street was the present, and she wanted none of it.
As her mind wandered off into the future, her past came back to shock her. No, not anyone or anything directly related to Hyannisport, Massachusetts. That didn't even matter. The past came to her in the form of Molina Rose, who shared her story. Once normal, even affluent, but then took a turn for the worse.
Worse? What am I thinking? she pondered. This is a great life, she retorted. This is freedom. No parents, no yacht clubs or tea parties -- no expectations. At least, none from anyone else. As Marissa hopped on the train to downtown, the only things she expected came from herself and herself only. All the cute boys at school, just distractions. All the foolish people in Washington Heights, all just distractions.
The future lay waiting at the other end of the subway line, at the other end of a college diploma, at the other end of a cul-de-sac, with a happy house, a happy family, and a happy life.
2 comments:
Oscar Alcazar
The pain was sharp, throbbing, menacing, unforgiving. Any slight movement sent shocks of agony pulsing through Oscar's meaty head. He couldn't remember what caused the pain, why he was half-way off the bed, why he was sweaty and cold. He stepped outside into the fresh morning air and began to recall flashes of imagery from the night before.
He was with Manuel and Machelli. He must have been doing something illegal. A black van flashed through his memory. What was that? Why did he keep thinking about it? It must have some importance. Damn the pain was too much. Oscar collapsed into a dirty plastic chair. As his vision faded in and out, Oscar's skin bristled with goosebumps. Hail? Really? Please... But he was too delirious to care.
Oscar remembered see the black van drive away. Its tires screeched on wet pavement. The picture in his mind was blurry, hazy. He remembered commotion, disarray, frantic running, ducking, hiding. Gunshots. And the black van's screeching tires. That van was nothing but trouble. He knew it.
Marissa flung open the door of Washington Heights. A gust of wind tipped her sideways as she stepped off the curb. She recovered, hustling across the street towards Oscar.
"Watcha need honey, the usual?"
"Hell yeah. How you doin today big buddy? Looks like you had a long night last night."
"Sure did. Funny thing is, I'm still trying to remember it all." Oscar slapped her sandwich together. "Keep the money, girl. We cool."
"Thanks Oscar."
He returned to his look-out chair on the sidewalk. The wind felt good now, calming, relaxing, refreshing. His head was clearing up.
and over and tried to find you then tried to move on then tried to forget but i can't. please delilah come home i don't know what more i can say. i miss you on the swing, in the garden, watching the butterflies. i will give you anything everything just come back please. i'm not angry, i don't care why you left. but i can't wait anymore and
The familiar red ink ran slightly as it mixed with Delilah's fresh tears. Her hands shook as she read His words. She traced the rushed pen strokes with her index finger and felt His own shaking hands as He scribbled the letter on the scrap paper. She smiled as she took the back of her hand to her cheekbone and tried to remember where her suitcase was
whoo.whoo.whoo.whoo.whoo.
Delilah blinked her dry eyes furiously as she awoke to blaring sirens coming from her window. She raised her imprinted cheek from the plush red pillow of her couch and looked down at the unopened envelope wrapped in her five fat fingers. Body stiff from an unexpected sleep, she pulled herself over the edge of the couch to look out the window. The day had been exceedingly miserable for the season, and bits of ice mingled with the tiny wet droplets on her window sill. A black van scurried beneath her as the sirens began to die away, and Delilah remembered where she was.
The letter.
It had been days since she recovered it from her tiny metal cubby. She had attempted to open it 47 times but couldn't go through with it. She tried to keep her body occupied with the usual menial tasks she could complete around Washington Heights, but Delilah's mind was focused on the small, unopened envelope resting on the kitchen counter, dozing on the coffee table, waiting on her bed. But every time she found herself ready to dig her plump finger beneath the envelope flap and shred the silencing seal, she began imagining what she wished it said. She could not bear to be disappointed.
So she never opened it.
Today had been no different. Delilah eyed the letter in the quickly fading suffocated sunlight for what felt like the millionth time. The corners were beginning to fold and brown slightly. The edges were becoming discolored from the oils of her fat fingers. The red of the ink, however, remained vibrant and His handwriting unmistakable. She was tempted to put the envelope up to window to get a clue as to its contents, but she could not even manage that.
Instead she looked out of her small window without any obstruction but the bleak, polluted atmosphere of Washington Heights. She watched the people busying themselves below, playing her familiar game. She watched the peculiar foreign man from her building walk off towards Barton street before changing direction and coming back the other way – 24 cracks. A younger girl with more years on her face that on her driver's license held on to her hat as she made her way to the Diner Royale – 8 cracks. The beautiful basement tenant did not let the threat of sleet faze her as she walked, grocery bags in hand, back home – 5 cracks. Perfect.
Like a dandelion sprouting from the crack in the sidewalk, life managed to survive in this hopeless offshoot of greater Baltimore. Moving, breathing life.
Marginally inspired, Delilah made a decision.
Sunday.
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